Inquisition
by Morgause1
Summary: The Maia's mental defenses were very strong. Morgoth even helped him erect some of them, and he built further upon his foundations. But now they crumbled before him like paper consumed by fire. -Dark, cruel, terrible, but basically Angbang, with some fluff in the second chapter.-
1. Chapter 1

"I'll handle it, my Lord. I will send emissaries to the village. The creatures would be easily persuaded."

"No. Raze the damned village to the ground. I will make an example of them: let the fate of those cooperating with my enemies be whispered in terror across the land for years to come."

"That village is situated most strategically. We could use some allies in that area. If we draw them to our side and fortify the place properly, the ongoing benefits would far exceed any shock value retribution might procure. My spies are among them and their reports are good: I know all their weaknesses, all their hidden desires. They'd gladly kneel if I make the right proposition."

"I said, burn them."

"My Lord, I must insist…"

"No."

"Why?" the question was blatant, annoyed.

"Out." Morgoth spit, his eyes fixed balefully on his Lieutenant. The hall emptied immediately, its occupants scurrying out of harm's way. The Maia remained, back straight as a steel rod and his arms folded behind him, meeting his gaze full on. Suspicion has been gnawing at the Vala's mind for some time now, only making him more acutely aware of the pain in his head where that terrible crown dug into flesh. And this has already been a very trying day.

"You are very good at your job, aren't you, Lieutenant?"

"Yes."

"One might say my subjects are more terrified of you than they are of me. Perhaps they even consider you to be the King of Arda yourself?"

"Not by any action of mine."

"Indeed?" This was ridiculous. The implications were getting too transparent, even for this insolent wretch.

"Anything I do is for your glory, my lord and master." he explained, bowing elegantly, not losing his composure. A heavy silence followed, interrupted only by the tapping of one blackened finger against the iron armrest.

"I will forever be amazed by your ability to keep your face perfectly innocent while lying through your teeth," Morgoth said quietly, noting with satisfaction the alarm that finally crept into Mairon's eyes. "You are a deceitful little traitor, ever seeking to supplant me – "

"What? No, my Lord! I'm loyal – "

"Silence!" the Vala roared, suddenly rising from the throne and backhanding Mairon across the face. He caught the falling Maia and grabbed him by the temples, almost crushing his head. "I will have the truth, one way or another."

The Maia's mental defenses were very strong. Morgoth even helped him erect some of them, and he built further upon his foundations. But now they crumbled before him like paper consumed by fire. Mairon screamed in pain underneath him, slowly sinking to his knees, but Morgoth didn't care. He rummaged through his memories and thoughts, viciously pushing aside and trampling tender structures to find a hint of betrayal, not finding any. This angered him even more. He drilled deeper in. The thoughts were becoming more raw and intimate as he went, coming down at last to mere flames and notes of Music. Ignoring the flood of Maiarin emotions begging him to stay his hand, he breached the Core of Mairon's mind with more violence than could ever be needed. Then he stopped, shaken.

At the Core of an Ainu's mind Holiness dwelt. Try as he did, even Morgoth could not eradicate it from his own soul. And in the Maia's innermost sanctum, now violated and inflamed, Morgoth saw his own image.

He saw himself rising above the face of molten Arda, a great spirit of fury and might, creator and destroyer with a cloak of darkness swirling around him to devour all light. His word shattered matter; his glance made time stop and brought down the stars from the sky. His laughter crushed the soul, only to set it free. He was regal, magnificent, a true god. Mairon's scraped spirit still muttered little prayers, barely audible above the susurrus of blood in his temples.

He had not been this glorious being for ages now. He was shriveled, confined to this beaten and scarred mortal body. His power was diminished beyond recognition and his mind eaten away by hate. And yet, the Maia still saw him the way he used to be. He looked at him now, crumpled into a heap on the stone floor.

"I'm loyal, I love you…" he sobbed again and again, his voice never rising above a whisper. He was bleeding from his eyes and nose. Melkor let go of his head and sat down beside him with a thump. After a moment he put his arm around his shoulders. Mairon's arms shot forward and wrapped around his waist, clinging to him like a lifeline. He caressed the mess of red hair in his lap, not saying anything. There was nothing left to say.

After a while Mairon stirred, trying to get up. Melkor pushed him back down gently and then picked him up himself and walked out of the throne room, leaving the accursed crown on the floor.

"Water to the Lieutenant's rooms," he said dismissively to a passing Orc who scrambled away to do his bidding.

* * *

Mairon's rooms were lushly furnished, a flurry of velvets and silks, all fire-colored and embroidered in gold. Thick furs covered the stone floor, glinting in the firelight. A servant had already filled the large copper bath with boiling water, scented with the Maia's favorite herbs.

Mairon was silent as Melkor undressed him, only sighing in relief as he was lowered into the scalding water, kept hot by a fire lit beneath the tub. Melkor knelt beside the bath and rubbed the blood off Mairon's face and hair with a washing cloth, admiring how the fire reflected off the rivulets of water running down the Maia's skin. Then Mairon opened his reddened eyes.

"I will send troops to the village first thing tomorrow morning," he whispered. "They will skewer the heads of every living creature on the village paling. The stench would be felt a hundred leagues away."

"Do that."

Mairon did not say anything again until he lay in bed, half covered by a wolf pelt. He worried his lip, as if struggling with himself, and at last he spoke.

"Torture me any way you want, Master, but please don't do that again. Please. Just not that."

"Don't give me reasons to do it. Hush now." He turned to leave, but the Maia grabbed his hand and kissed it, peering wordlessly into his eyes. He smiled a small, bitter smile, and shook his hand free.

"I will see you tomorrow, Mairon."


	2. Chapter 2

A column of smoke rose in the air, and the Orcs and other fell denizens of Angband cheered. Melkor stood on the parapet, a vast, looming shape all dressed in flowing black. He put his hand upon his Lieutenant's shoulder, noting how he flinched slightly before forcefully assuming a more natural pose.

"A gift for you, my Lord," the Maia had said as his troops spilled the hands and paws of the inhabitants of the vanquished village in the courtyard. He then ordered that the hands be burnt in sacrifice to their god-king. Melkor accepted the offering graciously, smiling. Mairon's little attempts to please him and make up for his infringement were endearing. In truth, the memory of his own actions in the throne room was still pestering him like a rotten tooth. It was not pity, definitely not remorse, but something was not quite as it should be.

And so now he moved his hand to the Maia's nape, feeling the soft skin getting goosebumps underneath his fingers. Mairon's eager bodily reactions to his lightest touch were always a source of amusement to the Vala, but now it was strange, too strong perhaps. Tainted. Melkor rubbed the back of the Maia's neck, entwining his fingers in his hair and tugging a bit. The Maia let out a small moan, both pain and pleasure evident in his breath. That was strange, too. He was usually much more composed in public. Deciding that they had spent a sufficient amount of time at the ceremony, Melkor navigated Mairon back inside the fortress, still holding him by the hair. They went deeper and deeper through the torch-lit corridors until at last they stopped beside a large door of beautifully carved oak: the Vala's main study and council room.

Mairon spent countless hours, years maybe, in this room, laying out plans and arguing with his generals. This was a place for heat, loud voices, and cunning violence. But now it was empty, the large table swept bare, and the voices were dead. It was strange and disheartening, just like the hulking presence of the Vala beside him that presently removed his fingers from his hair, resulting in a certain cold fog that settled in Mairon's mind. If he could only concentrate as he usually could! Mairon blinked and shook his head, trying to force out the whispers that crept into his mind uninvited. This was no time for weakness.

"How may I be of service, my Lord?"

Melkor did not answer. He was leaning on a tall cabinet, his arms folded on his chest. He was eyeing Mairon carefully. Mairon stiffened when he moved towards him, biting the yelp off his tongue when the Vala's fingers suddenly touched his bruised temples.

He braced for another attack, but it did not come. Instead, the Vala's vast mind simply regarded him, assessing the damage done to his defenses. Clumsily, Mairon tried to open the still-inflamed doors of his mind for his inspection, but Melkor stopped him. He lowered his hands to the Maia's jaw and tilted it up.

"You will be alright soon."

I am alright now, Mairon wanted to say, but then Melkor's lips were on his skin, on his mouth, and all rational thought left him. Such displays of affection on Melkor's side were rare. Over the long years of his service, Mairon memorized and cherished each and every one of them. He breathed in deep the smell of ozone and smoke in his hair and wrapped his arms around him, clinging to his warmth in the cold, empty room.

"I brought you something," Melkor withdrew and reached into his cloak, producing a small, paper-wrapped parcel.

That, too, was rare. "What is it, my Lord?"

At a gesture, Mairon opened the wrapping, still in the Vala's hand. Inside it were several star shaped, white flowers, uncrushed and fresh-looking.

"The Men of the Marshes use them for healing the hurts of the mind." Melkor explained. "Take them. I want you back in full capacity as soon as possible."

He ignited the fireplace with a Word. Mairon watched as the little conjured flame ate at the dry hay stacked on top, growing in size enough to tackle the bigger sticks. Melkor placed a small earthenware cup over the grate, and when the water in it boiled he dropped the flowers inside. A bitter-sweet scent steamed in the cold air. Coming to kneel on the rug before the fire alongside his master, Mairon took a sip, and soon his slightly doubling sight straightened out. Another sip and the whispers faded. He drained the cup. Melkor studied him with interest.

"Better?"

Mairon nodded. With his vision clearer now, he could see the play of light and shadow on the Vala's skin, the pale grayness illuminated a warm peach in places. His hair flowed untouched, as always, swallowing all light. Mairon's curiosity piqued.

"How did you come by the plant, my Lord?"

"It was given to the scouts by the Marsh Elder, as a sign of good will. It appears to be sacred to them. "

"Oh." The Marshes was a tiny piece of land colonized by a tribe of Men. It held no significance yet, but it might later play some part in their efforts in the South-East. Last time the issue was discussed at council, Mairon suggested that they befriend the tribe to some extent, to make it easier to turn them to their side if the proper time ever came. He didn't think his Lord would agree.

"You see," He smiled, as if reading his thoughts. "I do heed your advice occasionally."

Mairon smiled, too, and then his smiled turned into a grimace. "My Lord, please forgive me for yesterday. I behaved most heinously."

"Forgiven." Melkor wasn't looking at him. He was staring into the flames. If Mairon hadn't known better, he'd say there was a hint of uncertainty in the curve of his brow, in the arch of his lips. But that thought was preposterous.

The minutes passed soft, strangely intimate. Nothing was heard in the room but the chuckle of flames and their breathing. Encouraged, Mairon reached out for him, and Melkor let him touch. His fingers ghosted on his shoulder, running down his arm all the way to his burned hand. As he did the night before, he leaned down and pressed his lips gently into the Vala's palm. And this time, Melkor didn't turn him away.


End file.
